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I look at my hands: they're just not weird Because they are mine. But it's so weird to stretch them So, slowly, like these sea anemones ... Suddenly closing them Fingers like carnivorous petals! However, I only get this impalpable food time with them, That sustains me and kills me, and that keeps secreting my thoughts How spiders weave webs. To what world Do I belong? In the world there are stones, baobabs, panthers, Humming waters, wind blowing And overhead the clouds improvising endlessly. But none of this says: “I exist”. Because there are only ... Meanwhile, Time breeds death, and death begets the gods And, full of hope and fear, We perform rituals, we invent Magic words, We do Poems, poor poems That wind It mixes, confuses and disperses in the air ... Neither in the sky star nor in the starfish This was the end of Creation! But then, Who eternally weaves the fabric of such old dreams? Who asks me this question?
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